Dream Smashers (12 page)

Through the rain, a stream rushes toward the
gutters on the streets and Jacinda walks. Head down, nowhere to go,
no responsibilities to live for. She ain’t worth the mud she’s
treadin’ through. Her heart hurts.

She shouldn’t even bother with it no more.
There ain’t no reason for it. She missed the day that God passed
out destinies to everyone else on the face of the world, because
she ain’t got one and it hurts. With no purpose, no reason to go
on, it feels like swallowing a razor blade. It cuts a giant gash
down the center of her guts.

But she’s too chicken shit to end it all.
Tried that before, didn’t work.

She dunno if she could ever go clean.
Maybe.

The Cleansing Room sits down the road. She
could walk there if she wanted. She don’t fuckin’ know if she wants
to though. She stumbles down Columbia Street toward rehab, The
Cleansing Room—stupid name. Just a couple blocks away.

Pressure builds deep in her chest, pressing
on all the walls. Something she ain’t felt in years. It feels a
little like hope, whatever the fuck that is, or excitement for what
the future could hold. So many questions lay heavy in her head.
What if she does get clean, then what? Will the brat like her? Will
it be too late? Maybe Autumn will be dead before she’s done with
rehab. Maybe. But then Jacinda can take care of Ma. She’ll need
someone to care for her ‘cause she’s gettin old and shit. Yeah,
yeah, that’s something she can do.

Maybe she can go to nursing school or some
shit like that, and learn to take care of old folks. Or get a job
in an office.

Jacinda ain’t never been clean before. She’s
been numb for so long. It’s scary to think of life with pain.
Whenever she’s able to feel, like now, she just takes another hit
or gets drunk or snorts something, anything to take away the pain.
The burning inside, deep down, into the pit of Jacinda, where the
devil himself dwells. She’s always been pretty sure that he lives
inside her. That’s why it hurts so bad when she’s sober. He’s in
her, burning holes through her tissues and guts and shit—through
her soul.

Stupid devil. Damn stupid pain.

Stairs, hundreds of stairs before her,
leading up to The Cleansing Room. Jacinda stands at the base,
gazing up to the cement building. Daggers of water spear her eyes.
She closes them.

Just go up. Take a step and go up the fucking
stairs. Come on Jacinda, you can take a fucking step.

No she can’t, her legs won’t move. Her body
trembles.

She’s been here before, a time ago, but then
she didn’t want to be here. It wasn’t her choice, and they couldn’t
force her to stay, so she left. Hope didn’t live in her heart then,
only the pain, and so she left. They asked her questions. Questions
she couldn’t answer, so she left. The beds made her back hurt, the
food tasted like wood, everyone stared at her—judging her with
their snotty-looks, the air smelled of cleaners and burned her
nostrils, the night-sweats chilled her to the bone, and so she
left.

She can’t possibly endure this fuckin’ hell
hole again even if it means that she would get better.

“Hey JC. Wucha doin here?” A man’s voice
startles her. She jerks her head around. Ace sits in his hot rod,
his window rolled down. She didn’t even hear him pull up, but his
engine revs loud now.

“Oh, Ace. Just the man I need to see.” Thank
God. “You know what I need, don’t ya?”

“Come with me babe. You know I’ll take care
of ya.”

Yes, I know you will. Take me the fuck to
where oblivion shines.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I sit at the table, waiting. Not knowing the
truth kills me, but having the conversation I’m about to have may
be totally worse. I’ve been thinking all night how to approach her.
Grams doesn’t like talking about the past. In fact, she hates it.
She once said, “The past wants to rest, so let it. You keep
stirring things up from the past, you’ll likely find out things you
wish you hadn’t.” Whatever that means.

“What’s all this?” Grams walks into the
kitchen and points to the breakfast on the table that I slaved to
whip up: eggs, toast, hash browns and coffee.

“It’s for you. Can we have breakfast here
today?”

She frowns, puts a hand on her hip and
scrunches her brows. “You know the gals are waiting. Why didn’t you
warn me?”

“Can’t you call down to Matt’s and tell them
you’ll be late then? I just want to ask you some things.”

“What things?” She picks the phone receiver
up off the wall—a green rotary relic. The past is off limits for
discussion but she sure likes to hang on to all her ancient
possessions. “Matt? Linda. You go on and tell the girls I’m running
late.” She pauses. “No, no need to cook my usual. Autumn’s done
made me a surprise breakfast…uh huh…well, okay then. Buh bye.”

A plate full of breakfast foods and a cup of
hot coffee wait for Grams on the table. “This must be serious.” She
sits down in front of the food, pushes it away, and pulls out her
cigarettes, lights one up then slurps the coffee. “Okay, I think
I’m ready now. I suppose this is going to give me a headache?”

Well it’s not going to make her laugh. Or
maybe it will. “Tell me about my dad.”

“Oh Autumn, what do you want to know ‘bout
him for? He may as well be dead for all I care. Who knows? Maybe he
is.” She shrugs and takes another drink of her coffee.

“Yadda, yadda, yadda. You’ve told me he’s a
creep. You’ve told me he’s a no good nobody that left mom knocked
up. But you haven’t told me who he is.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Why does anybody want to
know anything?” I roll my eyes. “What’s the big deal? So, I want to
know who made me. I’m not on a mission to go find him out or
anything. I just want to know.”

“You want to know so bad? Fine. His name is
Bob. He was married and had an affair with your then teenage
mother. Promises were made and he broke them and split town.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“Why in the world does that matter?” Grams
snuffs her cigarette out in the ashtray and pulls the breakfast
plate in front of her, taking a bite of eggs. “These are cold.”

If she ate them instead of smoking, they
wouldn’t be. “I just want to know. No big reason.”

She puts the fork down and looks at me. “He
was a pastor at my church. There. You happy now?”

“Really? My dad’s a pastor?”

“
Was
a pastor. He could be anything
now. It was the scandal of the church when the members found out
about you.” She gulps her coffee. “No one believed it until he up
and left town. Of course everyone blamed your mother.”

“What? Why would they blame her? She was a
teenager.” The thought of anyone blaming Jacinda for something a
creepy religious dude did totally pisses me off. No one has the
right to blame her for anything except for me. I’m the only one
allowed to be angry. Stupid old church goers, what the hell do they
know anyway? “It wasn’t her fault.”

Grams gives me a stern look. “Not entirely,
but she knew he was married. No, she shouldn’t have taken all the
blame and he was a spineless coward to have run away. Your mom knew
the consequences of her actions. I warned her. He wasn’t the first
married man she had been with.”

My jaw drops open. “Oh my God!”

“You watch your mouth.”

Oops. “Sorry. But, what do you mean? Was she
a slut?”

Grams points her finger at me. “I mean it
missy. You’re not too old for a bar of soap to wash that filth out
of that mouth, you know.” She lights another cigarette. “No she
wasn’t, ah…” She waves her hand in the air. “What you just said,
she wasn’t that. She liked older men I guess.”

Gross.

“Are we done here? I’d like to get down to
Matt’s.”

I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”

***

Angel walks across the courtyard to meet me.
The autumn sun glimmers through her long copper hair and the breeze
blows it all supermodel like. Her pale-skin knees are sandwiched
between brown leather boots and an orange billowing skirt. She
turns to smile and wave at the popular jock, Justin Daniels, and
other boys gawking at her.

“Are you ready?” she says with a breathless
voice, like she just jogged across the courtyard instead of
walked.

I give her a look of disinterest to let her
know that I’m not in awe over her, even though I am. “Yep. What do
you want to do today? Do you need to change out of those
clothes?”

“Why? Will we be wallowing in the dirt?” She
gives me the once-over. My torn jeans and dirt covered Doc Martins
don’t seem to impress her. I totally ditched my rules today and
didn’t dress the part of carefree girl. The rules seem too much of
an effort to follow.

“That all depends on how well you wrestle,” I
say.

She stares at me with vacant green eyes.

“I’m kidding!” Rainy would have laughed.

“Oh.” She half laughs and shakes her head. “I
actually thought you were serious. We can go to my place for a bit
if you want.”

“Sure.” I shrug.

We crunch through the leaves on the sidewalk.
The silence between my new friend and I becomes muffled by our
steps, children playing on the playgrounds, cars zipping by on the
street, and a bald eagle soaring above us, screeching at its new
found prey—a smaller bird flapping its little wings turbo-fast.

It must be me. I’m the uptight one, the one
who has trouble making new friends and never know what to talk
about. Our silence feels like sludging through quicksand. Only
Angel isn’t sinking like I am. She floats above the sandpit in
light air, giddy and free.

I miss Rainy. I don’t have to pretend with
her. Sure, she’s mean and moody, but I’ve always felt comfortable
with Rainy, even when she doesn’t listen to me or when she
conveniently forgets to tell me about a date.

Angel glances at me. “You ever been to
Scour?”

“Never heard of it.”

“Oh, man. You’d love it. It’s crazy cool.”
She slows her pace. “It’s an underage club that’s usually open on
the weekends. You want to go sometime?”

“An underage club?” I hesitate.
“Dancing?”

“Yeah. I know the DJ who works there on
Saturday nights.”

Dancing and music and people. Uh, no. “I
totally don’t dance.”

“You don’t have to dance. We can just hang
out or something.”

Silence.

I ask, “Do you dance?”

Before she answers, Ms. Lightheart’s car zips
around the corner at the far end of the street.

Angel’s jaw tightens. “Oh God.” She turns
around to face the bushes. “Stop for a sec. Pretend you’re looking
at something.”

“Uh, why?”

“Because. That woman in that car is a total
bitch and I don’t want her to see me. She knows my mom.” She grabs
my arm.

I stop, but I don’t turn around. “Why’s she a
bitch?” But Angel doesn’t answer me. She must have her confused
with someone else because Ms. Lightheart could never be a
bitch.

I can’t take my eyes off Ms. Lightheart, the
rendition of the someday-new-me, driving toward me now, to remind
me of my rules. That’s why she always shows up at these times, to
jump-start my determination to work harder at being the new me, the
better me who doesn’t have worries, and who doesn’t care about
arguing or hurting feelings, especially when setting boundaries.
Boundaries are a must to being carefree. I can’t remember if that’s
a rule. If it isn’t, it should be.

“Would you stop staring at her,” Angel
whisper-yells. “You’ll make her stop.”

“What? Why would she stop?” I put my hand on
my hip, trying to feel natural standing on the sidewalk for no
apparent reason. It feels awkward there, so I cross my arms in
front of my chest instead.

She angry-whispers, “That’s Darla. She’s my
mom’s supplier. I don’t want her to see me!”

I turn toward the road at Ms. Lightheart /
Darla and then the car backfires. A plume of black smoke billows
from behind it. The automobile of perfection farts. Not only does
it fart, but it leaves skid marks for the world to see. This can’t
be. Skid marks are for the imperfect, the real and tangible, the
everyday mundane crap. Perfection doesn’t have dirty underwear, at
least not in my definition of perfection.

“Supplier of what? Avon?” I ask.

Angel glares at me. “Uh, yeah. Okay.
Whatever.”

The leaves blow along the street. I
pretend-talk to Angel, but my gaze stays constant on the dream car
driving our direction. It’s a slow car, much slower than I
remember. The woman inside, Ms. Lightheart or, eh, Darla, the woman
of my dreams, whom I want to grow up to be, sits in the driver’s
seat.

She slows next to us and looks at us. Right
at us. Ms. Lightheart is about to speak to
me
.

“You there. You girl.” She snaps her fingers.
“Come here.”

Her voice doesn’t match my dreams. Ms.
Lightheart should have a warm loving voice instead of a gravelly
sick voice. I push that out of my mind because the most important
part of her voice, her words, causes me to panic. Perfection wants
to speak with me?

Angel soft-punches my arm.

I step off the curb, closer to the flatulent
car, thankful that it stopped farting when she stopped driving.

Her hair, once beautiful when held back in a
pony-tail, is a mess from the wind that whipped it every which way
possible. She no longer wears the retro-cool sunglasses. Gobs of
mascara goop-up her eyes. Wind-blown crusted white stripes of salt
flake on her face from eye to temple. Red lipstick, poorly
scribbled outside the lines of her natural lip, creates a clown
effect.

“You Jacinda’s kid?” she asks.

My heart turns to stone in my chest. I can’t
move. I can’t breathe. How does she know my mom?

“Earth to kid!” She snaps her bony fingers
with plastic red tips at me.